To Be Thankful For
by rebecca-in-blue
Summary: Tagged to Shell Shock: The team has Thanksgiving dinner at Gibbs's house – but what happens when foul weather forces them all to spend the night there?
1. Dish Duty

_Slightly tagged to episode 10x07 "Shell Shock: Part 2," in which the team mentioned that they would be having Thanksgiving dinner together at Gibbs's house. We didn't get to actually see that, so I decided to write my own take on it. This story is a tad bit silly, especially in later chapters._

_(For my own reference: 47th fanfiction, 30th story for NCIS.)_

* * *

"Look at this, I'm getting dishpan hands," Tony grouses, as he scrubs another plate clean and hands it off to Abby. He holds his hands out in front of him for a moment; his palms are wet and puckered, dripping soapy water into Gibbs's kitchen sink, where dishes from the team's Thanksgiving dinner are soaking. "You'd think if the boss didn't have a dishwasher, he'd at least have a pair of those cleaning gloves."

Further down the counter, Ziva suppresses a laugh at the image of Gibbs wearing bright yellow dish-washing gloves up to his elbows. She had been surprised too, when she first noticed that there was no dishwasher in Gibbs's kitchen, but honestly, what did she expect? "Perhaps he uses the gloves we wear at crime scenes," she suggests, smiling, as she dries off a serving bowl.

"Yeah, I can see him doing that," Abby puts in. She's standing between Tony and Ziva, rinsing off the dishes that Tony hands her and passing them down to Ziva, who wipes each one with a dishtowel and sets it in the drying rack on the counter. "Anyway, quit complaining," Abby scolds, nudging Tony with her shoulder. "If Gibbs is nice enough to have Thanksgiving dinner at his house this year, the least we can do is wash the dishes."

McGee enters the kitchen with an assortment of jars and coffee cups from the living room. "Well, that clears the table," he announces, setting them down next to the other dirty dishes on the counter. Tony glances over at them and smirks. Gibbs apparently had no glasses in his house, either. At dinner, they had all drinken out of coffee cups, jam jars, and mason jars — no two of them matched. Tony had almost burst out laughing at Ziva's taken-aback expression when Gibbs started passing them out.

He picks up the pie tin from the counter to drop it into the sink, but Abby puts a hand on his arm and stops him. "Hold off on that a sec, Tony," she says, taking it from it. "It hasn't been picked clean yet."

McGee opens his mouth, perhaps to object, but Abby cuts him off with, "Don't be silly, McGee. The more we eat, the less we have to scrub clean. Hey, did you guys notice Gibbs put chocolate sauce over his slice? I'd never seen anyone put chocolate on apple pie before."

Tony grabs a fork and joins Abby in picking crumbs out of the pie tin, so McGee moves to the sink, rolls up his sleeves, and takes over scrubbing duty. "Anyway, it was a great pie, Ziva," he tells her.

"Thank you, McGee." She had baked the pie herself, with sweet green apples and a latticed upper crust. "It is an expression, yes? As American as apple pie?"

"That's right," McGee nods. "You should ask Ducky about it the next time you see him, and I'm sure he can tell you the history of it."

Ducky had attended their Thanksgiving dinner, of course, bringing a small turkey that the rest of them lacked the time to baste and roast. He led them in a traditional Scottish blessing before the meal, but he had gone home early, as soon as they were done eating. No one minded that he didn't stay to help clean up and wash dishes; he was still recovering from a heart attack, after all.

"And I loved your sweet potato casserole," she tells him, adding, when Tony pouts and looks left out, "and Tony's Focaccia bread."

"_Italian_ Foccacia bread," Tony amends. He smiles at Abby as they scrape the pie tin clean. "And I loved Abby's green bean casserole."

"_Caffeinated_ green bean casserole," Abby corrects, mimicking him. "Did I tell you guys I soaked the green beans in Caf-Pow before I casseroled them?"

Tony makes a face, Ziva suppresses the urge to gag, and McGee rolls his eyes and wonders how he's ever going to sleep tonight. He thought his heart rate had felt accelerated since dinner.

"I knew the boss would make mashed potatoes," Tony goes on. He pauses to lick a bit of sticky apple pie filling off his finger. "I called that. Any dish that involves _beating_ something or _mashing_ something – I knew that's what he would make."

"I doubt he even had to mash those potatoes," McGee smirks, handing another dish to Ziva. "He probably just yelled at them until they mashed themselves."

The guys both laugh at that, but they stop suddenly when Gibbs barrels into the kitchen. Tony straightens up from where he'd been leaning against the counter, and McGee almost drops the coffee cup in his hands.

"We were just, uh, washing the dishes, Boss," Tony says quickly. "Did you need help moving the chairs back?"

Gibbs's rickety dining room table wasn't big enough for all of them, so for dinner, Gibbs had moved its chairs into his living room and set them up around the coffee table. The food was served buffet-style on the dining room table, and they had each fixed their own plate and eaten off the couch and chairs. It was far less formal than their Thanksgiving dinner at Ducky's old house, but Gibbs's living room was quite cozy once he built a fire, and they'd all enjoyed sharing each other's food and company.

"I been watching the weather," Gibbs says abruptly. "It started snowing earlier. Hard. It'll be too dangerous to drive in soon."

Tony frowns and yanks up the blinds on the window over the sink. Sure enough, snow is falling thick and fast outside, already piling up on the windowsill.

Abby looks out worriedly, wringing her hands. "It does look bad. Have you called Ducky? Did he get home okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine. He sent me a text. But all the weather reports say the snow is going to keep up through the night, and they're asking everyone except emergency vehicles to stay off the roads."

"Then how are we supposed to get home?" McGee blurts out.

"You're not," Gibbs says shortly, his voice as firm as when he gives them orders in the bullpen. His team faces enough dangerous situations on the job; if he can keep them out of this one, he will. He adds, in a tone that leaves no room for argument, "You're staying here."

Their reactions are exactly what Gibbs had expected. There's a moment of stunned silence while his three field agents exchange incredulous, _did he really just say that?_ looks with each other, and Abby just smiles at him sweetly.

"Wait — you mean, _here_, Boss? Here at your place?" Tony.

"Stay as in... spend the night?" McGee.

"All of us?" Ziva.

"Aw, Gibbs, that is so nice of you." Abby.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Sleeping Arrangements

_Thank you so, so much to everyone who reviewed or story-alerted Chapter 1! Chapter 2 is finally here, and I hope it lives up to your expectations. I apologize for the wait, but here in Louisiana, even geeks like me have been in the middle of a crazy and busy Mardi Gras!_

* * *

They wait in the living room while Gibbs disappears upstairs shortly after making the announcement. Tony is certain that he's up there hiding all the personal belongings that he doesn't want them to see, and his curiosity is almost driving him crazy. He never did get to snoop much into Gibbs's past during that trip to Stillwater. Maybe tonight will be his chance.

McGee, meanwhile, pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and flips it open. "I think I'd better text Ducky and Palmer and tell them we're spending the night here," he informs the rest of his team, typing away. "I have a feeling Gibbs might come to regret his offer and kill us all before the night is over. This way, they'll know where to send a search team to look for our bodies."

His tone isn't joking, but completely serious. Abby opens her mouth, almost certainly to defend Gibbs, but before she can say anything, their boss thumps back downstairs.

"You know, not to sound ungrateful, Boss," Tony speaks up, "but where are we all supposed to sleep? _You_ already rack on your couch every night."

Gibbs pins him with a glare that would make lesser men turn and run. "The hell do you know that, DiNozzo?"

"My old man told me," Tony answers brazenly. "He said when he stayed here last Thanksgiving that you got the couch, he got a cot you dragged out of the bowels of your basement, and that if there was a guest room or even one real bed in this house, he certainly never saw it."

"There's a bed upstairs, but you're not gonna see it either, DiNozzo." His Senior Field Agent is the nosiest of his kids, and Gibbs isn't about to let him loose on the second floor of his house. "Abby, you can sleep there."

"Thank you, Gibbs," Abby answers immediately. She had been expecting to get the bed, and his agents exchange looks again. _No surprise there._

"One of you can have the couch," he goes on to them, "and one of you gets the cot." Gibbs pauses for a split-second. He has _three_ agents; this arrangement will still leave one of them without a place to sleep, with Abby all alone in that big bed upstairs. And there's no way in hell that either of the guys are sharing sleeping quarters with Abby. Or with Ziva, for that matter. Not under his roof. He'd better put them on separate floors. He quickly adds, "Ziver, you and Abby can share the bed."

Ziva frowns — and feels guilty for it when Abby grabs her arm and says, "Ooh, fun! It'll be like we're having a slumber party." Ziva quickly smiles back, not wanting to tell her that she's never been to a slumber party in her life.

"And where _you_ gonna sleep, Boss?" Tony asks, but Gibbs has already started down the basement stairs and doesn't answer.

"Oh, I'll bet a week's worth of Caf-Pow that Gibbs can sleep standing up, with his eyes open," Abby tells them with certainty.

"Well, given that a week's worth of Caf-Pow for you is about a year's supply for most people..." McGee muses.

"How old would you guys guess this couch is?" Tony asks. He surveys it grimly and tries to plump the lumpy cushions, grousing, "I knew he'd let you have the bed."

"She is the favorite," Ziva points out.

"Yep," Abby smiles, a bit smug. "I will miss sleeping in my coffin, but I suppose I can manage being away from it for just one night. Come on, Ziva, let's go find this bed."

They disappear upstairs, while Tony follows Gibbs into the basement to help him carry the cot up, and McGee wanders down the hall, muttering, "There be a linen closet here somewhere..." He returns to the living room, his arms full of blankets and pillows, just as Gibbs and Tony are setting up the cot — an old, Army-issued cot with short aluminum legs and faded, kelly-green sleeping material. Tony takes one look at it, turns to McGee, and holds out his hand.

"Thumb-wrestle you for the couch, McGoo?"

* * *

Upstairs, Gibb's bedroom is as bare as Ziva had expected, and she can tell from the slightly musty smell that he rarely sleeps up here. While Abby showers in the connected master bathroom, Ziva stands next to the bed, glaring down at it as if it were a suspect in interrogation and she was suspicious of its motives. She isn't quite sure if she likes the idea of sleeping in Gibbs's bed, and she's still getting over her surprise that he actually offered it to her and Abby. She doesn't want to know — she really does _not_ want to know — but can't help wondering if Gibbs used to sleep with Shannon in this same bed. Or Dr. Samantha Ryan. Or that insufferable attorney, M. Allison Hart. Or Colonel Hollis Mann. Or his ex-wives. Or...

Oh, God. Director Shepard. _Jenny_.

It's almost as uncomfortable as imagining her own parents having sex. No, Ziva cannot possibly bring herself to sleep in this bed. She would rather sleep on the floor, or downstairs with the guys, or just about anywhere else in the world.

Fortunately, just then, the door to the bathroom swings open and Abby steps out in a wave of steam. "Your turn in the shower, Ziva," she says, drying off her hair with a towel. So Ziva takes a hot shower and tries her best to scrub away any thoughts of what Gibbs might've done in that bed or with whom. She steps out of the bathroom in the old, over-sized USMC shirt that Abby found in the closet and convinced her to wear. It falls to her mid-thigh and smells a bit musty, but she had no other clothes to sleep in. Abby is wearing the little white slip she'd had on under her dress.

She's sitting on the edge of Gibbs's bed when Ziva gets out of the bathroom. "This is an extra-firm mattress," Abby informs her gravely, bouncing up and down on it a little. "The man sleeps on an extra-firm mattress. Okay, I know I shouldn't be surprised by that, but even for Gibbs, that's taking self-punishment a bit too far, don't you think?"

Just then, there's a soft noise outside — the faintest footfall on the stairs. Abby doesn't even hear it. The bedroom door is closed, but between years of spy training at Mossad and working with Tony at NCIS, Ziva recognizes the sound of his tread well enough to know that her partner has snuck upstairs. She almost laughs — what does Tony think he can get away with, when the four of them are all right under Gibbs's nose?

She motions to the door and tells Abby in a barely-audible whisper, "I believe Tony is crawling around outside."

"Um, I think you mean _creeping,_" she whispers back.

Ziva cocks her head, still listening. "Possibly McGee as well."

Abby's face lights up. "Ooh, let's mess with them!" And before Ziva can reply, she stands up, steps closer to the door, and practically shouts, "Ziva, let's take off our bras and see whose boobs are bigger!"

From outside the door, they hear a loud _thump_, as if Tony had just fallen over. Then come strange shuffling sounds, and McGee's voice just audible in the background, whispering, "I mean it, Tony, if you don't stop right now..."

"Huh, look at that," Abby adds, grinning wickedly, in the same loud voice. "It must be colder than I thought in here!"

Then the doorknob very slowly begins to turn, as if Tony hopes that if he does it stealthily enough, they won't notice him opening the door to peek. But the knob hasn't done more than a quarter-turn before there's a new sound — the familiar_ smack_ of Gibbs's hand hitting the back of Tony's head.

"DiNozzo! Stop lurking outside my bedroom and get your ass back downstairs!" His voice is as loud and clear as if he were in the room with them, and it gets even louder when he turns and addresses Abby and Ziva through the closed door. "And you two! Stop messing with him and go to bed!" Beyond Gibbs's voice, they can hear two pairs of feet hurrying back downstairs.

"Yes, Gibbs," Abby answers obediently, sounding like a chastised child, but she's still grinning and trying not to laugh. She turns down the blankets and practically jumps into Gibbs's bed.

Ziva walks over to the bed, but she still can't bring herself to actually touch it. This whole situation is just too strange; she had never once, ever, imagined herself sleeping with Abby in Gibbs's bed, wearing his old shirt, no less. She stalls by pretending to read the magazine titles on the bedside table — _Sport Fishing, Hemmings Classic Car, This Old House_. Does Gibbs actually read these things? Of course he does.

Abby sees right through her.

"Oh, come on," she says, grabbing Ziva's arm and gently pulling her down to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress is indeed very firm. "I know it's a little weird, sleeping in Gibbs's bed..."

Ziva rolls her eyes at hearing this from the woman who sleeps in a coffin.

"...but it'll be like when you're a kid and you have a scary dream and your parents let you sleep in their bed, you know?"

Ziva hesitates, unsure of how to answer. She doesn't want to tell Abby that no, she wouldn't know. Her father never would've allowed that, even though, like any child, she'd had her share of bad dreams, including a particularly terrifying recurring nightmare in which Nazis broke down their door and tried to shove her into the oven in the kitchen. Childhood fears die hard, and just remembering it, so many years later, sends a tiny shiver down her spine.

Before she knows it, she's climbed into bed beside Abby and pulled the covers up. She feels safer here. The dark blue comforter is heavy and warm and smells like Gibbs — coffee and sawdust and shaving cream and unmistakably _him_.

"That's better," Abby smiles sleepily. She slides across the sheets, snuggles up to Ziva, and throws one arm over her. Ziva is a bit taken aback, but she doesn't mind as much as she thought she would.

"I always sleep with Bert," Abby explains, "so I'm used to having someone to cuddle with. Good night."

"_Laila tov_," Ziva answers softly.

Abby's eyes slip closed, and Ziva is sure that she's asleep until she murmurs, "Ziva?"

"Hmm?"

"I never said... I'm sorry." She isn't asleep yet, but she will be soon. Her eyes are still closed, her words slurred.

Ziva frowns, confused. "Sorry for what, Abby?"

"For... you know, how I wasn't very nice to you—" She pauses to yawn. "—when you first joined the team."

Ziva smiles, finds Abby's free hand under the blankets, and laces their fingers together. In the final hours of this day that Americans have dedicated to giving thanks, she's just thought of one more thing to be thankful for. She's thankful that the weather turned so foul that they were all forced to spend the night at Gibbs's house.

* * *

_There will be a Chapter 3, so stay tuned!_


	3. The Morning After

_I have been so touched and overwhelmed by the response to this story. Thank you all so, so much!_

* * *

A small black clock sits on Gibbs's nightstand, beside the bed where Abby and Ziva are fast asleep beneath the heavy comforter. Its display isn't digital, with tiny, glowing red numbers, but an old-fashioned one, with numbers that flip by on plastic tabs. It reads 5:04 when a loud alarm shrills to life, breaking the silence of the darkened room, but the noise is much too modern-sounding for Gibbs's old clock.

Ziva groans awake and mutters something in Hebrew.

"What?" Abby murmurs, raising her head, bewildered and still half-asleep. "What is it?"

Ziva grabs her cell phone off the stack of magazines on the nightstand and presses a button that makes the ringing stop. "It is nothing, Abby," she tells her friend. "I just forgot to turn off my alarm last night. I usually wake up at five to go running before work."

"Oh. Well, you can't do that _today_," Abby tells her firmly. "You know how much warmth would go right out of this bed if you got up now?"

"And the roads are probably still impassable," Ziva adds. "I am sorry I woke you up." She settles back down beneath the comforter and sighs contentedly. It's a cozier feeling than she ever could've imagined, to be lying curled up next to Abby in Gibbs's bed while the snow still falls outside. Was she really so hesitant to even touch this bed last night?

"Ziva?" Abby asks sleepily.

"Hmm?"

"Do you feel a tiny bit guilty? For getting to sleep in a real bed while the guys are, like, camping out downstairs?"

Ziva yawns and smiles against the pillows. "Perhaps, but I am not losing any sleep over it." Abby giggles at that, and they're both fast asleep again in five minutes.

* * *

The wall clock in Gibbs's living room reads a few minutes past six when Tony blinks awake. Through the window, he can see the eastern sky slowly starting to turn a lighter shade of blue, but the room is still dark, save for the artificial glow of the TV screen. He and McGee had fallen asleep with it on last night, and now a high, childish voice is filling the room, rousing him.

_So I kept on believing, and you were right, Mommy! Mr. Kringle is Santa Claus!_

"Aw, look, McGee, it's adorable little Natalie Wood," Tony says. He turns down the blankets and sits up, stretching and yawning. "_Miracle on 34th Street_ — her most famous childhood role."

"Uh-huh" is the only reply from his cot on the floor. McGee doesn't even open his eyes.

Tony gets up, crosses the room, and flicks off Gibbs's ancient, black-and-white TV. "That channel always has a marathon of Christmas movies the day after Thanksgiving," he tells McGee. "They'll probably start the day with Natalie Wood learning to believe in Santa and end it with Macaulay Culkin slapping his cheeks and screaming."

"But Christmas is over a month away."

"Hey, it's Black Friday, McGrinch. That means it's Christmastime now, because only in America do people trample each other to save five bucks on a toy the day after giving thanks for what they already h — hey!"

As Tony turns around, he sees that McGee has silently slipped out of the cot and stolen his spot on Gibbs's couch.

"Sorry, Tony," McGee tells him, grinning as he settles under the blankets, "but you didn't call couch-back."

"That's low, McGee," Tony says, scowling as he lies down on the cot. It's smaller and less comfortable than the couch, but he's too tired to mind much, and they're both asleep again in five minutes.

* * *

The hammock had been a gift from his father, for Christmas last year, but tonight was the first time he ever used it. When he got it, the weather was much too cold to hang it up in his backyard, and even when spring came and the cherry trees blossomed, he just never got around to it. Gibbs was a man who relaxed by sawing and hammering wood in his basement, sometimes late into the night, not lazing in a hammock. But he made sure to call Jackson and thank him for the gift and sound like he really _meant_ it.

Last night, after he was sure that his kids were all asleep, he'd strung the hammock up in his basement and slept there. He was surprised by how comfortable it was. Maybe next spring, he would actually hang it up in his backyard. He might even go outside and relax in it one evening.

There's no clock in his basement — he goes down there to lose track of time, not watch it tick by — so he doesn't know what time it is when he wakes up, but he can tell from the amount of light in the room that the sun has mostly risen outside. For a moment, he just lies in the hammock, listening for noises. Most, if not all, of his team should be awake by now... but upstairs sounds as quiet as he's ever heard it. So he shifts out of the hammock and thumps upstairs.

The clock in his living room tells him that it's a few minutes past seven. Gibbs shakes his head at the sight of McGee and DiNozzo, still stretched out asleep on the sofa and cot.

They don't even stir when he grunts and opens his front door. A snowdrift almost as high as his knees is piled against the opposite side, but the sun is up and slowly melting it, and the snow plows are already running in some parts of the city. The streets should be cleared by later this morning.

The guys don't stir when he closes the door, either, and Gibbs has to smile at his tough, smart field agents — who've taken down drug dealers, serial killers, terrorists, Marines on steroids, and more — sleeping like babies in his living room.

He heads upstairs to check on Abby and Ziva. Ziva, at least, is probably awake by now; he knows that she likes to get up early to go running before work. But his soft knock on his bedroom door gets no response, so he pushes it open — just a sliver at first, in case they aren't decent, then the rest of the way. They're both still sound asleep in his bed, Ziva in one of his old USMC shirts, her dark hair fanned out across the pillow, Abby curled up next to her, with one arm wrapped around her. Gibbs has to smile at how serene they look in the soft morning sunlight.

The idea crosses his mind to yell at them and wake them up, but he brushes it aside. He heads back to his basement to work for a while. He passes through the living room slowly on his way down, listening to DiNozzo and McGee breathe. It's a strange, peaceful feeling to have all four of them under his roof. And he's still feeling uncharacteristically thankful — _generous _— from the day before. Hell, he'll let the kids sleep in.

* * *

It's a few minutes past eight when the smell of fresh coffee wakes them and draws them from the living room to the kitchen, where they find Abby brewing a pot. "Here, have some coffee," she says when she sees them, pouring a cup for McGee, then Tony. "It's eight o'clock already — can you guys believe Gibbs let us sleep in this late?"

Tony just stares at her for a moment, then smiles and looks away. "I was about to ask you how you can be so cheerful in the morning, but then I realized it's probably because you slept in a real bed last night, and not in a cot that's probably as old as I am."

"Oh, you're just mad because you totally _fell_ for it last night," Abby says with a little laugh. "You really thought Ziva and I were in there taking off our bras. But how did you guys sleep?"

"Well, I need a second cup of coffee," McGee grumbles, bleary-eyed. "What does that tell you?"

"Are you always this McGrouchy in the mornings?"

Just then, Ziva descends the stairs and joins them in the kitchen. Tony falls silent and stares, his mouth open a bit. Ziva's hair is loose, tousled from sleep, and she's wearing nothing but one of Gibbs's old USMC shirts, which barely reaches halfway down her thighs. Tony loses all coherent thought. Dear God, was_ this_ how Ziva slept last night, right above his head? In Gibbs's old shirt, in the same bed with Abby?

"I was thinking," Abby announces to them, "that since Gibbs let us all spend the night, the least we could do would be to make breakfast, but—"

"Abby," McGee interrupts, "you said last night that the least we could do was wash the dishes. Therefore we've already _done_ the least we can do."

Abby glares at him. "As I was about to _say_, I thought we could make breakfast, _but_ all Gibbs has in his refrigerator is a carton of eggs. See, look." She opens the refrigerator door. "A carton of eggs in the fridge and an extra-firm mattress upstairs. How does this man live?" She sighs and closes the door, shaking her head.

"He gets by, Abs," Gibbs cuts in, appearing at the top of the basement stairs. He crosses the kitchen to the coffee-maker and nods approvingly. Abby beams; she knows how selective Gibbs is about whose coffee he drinks. He goes on as he pours himself a cup, "There's a little diner not too far from here. I can run by there and pick up some breakfast." Hell, he's already let them all spend the night here. He may as well feed them before he sends them on their way.

He passes the coffee pot to Ziva, who pours a cup for herself. "Are the streets passable yet?" she asks him.

"They're still gettin' there," Gibbs says, peering out the front window at his snowy lawn. "But this place is just down the street. I should be able to drive there, at least."

"Oh, Gibbs," Abby protests. "You don't have to do that. You already let us spend the night here. One of us can g—"

"It's_ fine_, Abs," he cuts her off. "It's just down the street." He doesn't tell her that he _needs_ to get out of the house. In all the years he's lived here, it's never felt as small as it does right now. He heads down the hall to grab his coat and gloves.

Tony is still staring fixedly at Ziva. She meets his eyes over her coffee cup. "What?" she asks.

"The Boss has _got_ to let you keep that shirt. Come on, do you think _Gibbs_ could ever that hot with nothing but that shirt on?" Ziva gives him a sultry smile.

Gibbs charges back out of the hall. What the hell was he thinking, almost leaving the four of them here unsupervised? "DiNozzo," he orders, "drive down the street and pick up some food."

"But you just said you were going to do that, Boss." He's still staring at Ziva, not even trying to be subtle; he doesn't stop, in fact, until Gibbs head-smacks him. "Okay, _okay_," he huffs dramatically, getting to his feet and glaring at Gibbs. "I'm _going_."

As he heads down the hall to get his coat, he pretends to mutter under his breath, but his words are loud enough for all of them to hear. "Geez, who knew spending the night at Gibbs's house would be even more of a concussion risk than working with him?" Ziva smirks.

Gibbs turns to her. "David," he says in a low, warning voice, "go back upstairs and put on some clothes."

Ziva blushes a bit, ducks her head, and hurries back upstairs. As Tony leaves, he pauses in the doorway and watches her until she disappears behind Gibbs's bedroom door again. Outside, the air is frigid, but the morning sun warms Tony's face, and he smiles as he crunches across the snowy front lawn to the car. This has been one Thanksgiving that he'll certainly never forget.

**FIN**


End file.
